The Super Bowl is to be played in
Detroit this February.
It would be funny if it weren't tragic.
Never mind the worthlessness of the
pseudo-event itself. The Super Bowl is
to actual sports what Fox News is to
actual journalism - a blowsy, boorish,
pug-ugly exercise in fakery and
spectacle - the penultimate tale told by
an idiot, full of fury and bluster,
signifying nothing, notable only for the
national statistical increase in wife
beatings that it spurs annually. In
Detroit, the Super Bowl means
business. And business, as we
all know, trumps all comers: Never mind
whether it's good for the community,
good for children, good for people, or
good entertainment - if it's good for
the bottom line, it's automatically
good.
Thus the tortured logic which spurred
this once-proud hulk of a city to
prostrate itself before the NFL and beg
for this stale, sour, flavorless crumb
from the master's table. The Super Bowl,
we were told, would mark the economic
and cultural rebirth of the city of
Detroit, spurring a massive cash
infusion into its economy, a tide of new
city residents, an abundance of positive
- for a change - media attention. The
Super Bowl, we were told, was Detroit's
make-or-break bid to emerge from its
tar-pit torpor and re-emerge on the
national stage as a vital, vibrant city.
All thanks to the beneficence of the
National Football League. Lucky us.
It hasn't quite worked out that way. Oh,
preparations are on track for the "big
game" all right; derelict historical
landmarks such as the Motown Records
building and the Statler Hotel have been
demolished at a record pace;
surveillance cameras have been installed
in every possible nook and cranny; the
formerly ubiquitous homeless population,
the true downtown denizens of "The D,"
have been shuffled to other locales, and
thus out of sight and mind. (How this
has been accomplished is an interesting
question in and of itself. In at least
one instance, the methodology for
removal included the police spraying a
man with mace, beating him, and
unceremoniously dumping him outside of
the city limits.)
This is not, of course, the picture of
Super Bowl preparations which is painted
on the six o'clock evening news. The
television holds that this wondrous
once-in-a-lifetime event is marked by
smiling businessmen shaking hands,
earnest volunteers picking up litter,
and preparations for star-studded
parties where rail-thin supermodels and
burly quarterbacks can comfortably
cavort to the delight of hordes of
worshipful local admirers. Everything is
colorful, glittering and nice.
A quick walk of the city's streets, even
in the relatively immediate proximity of
the stadium where the bacchanal is to
take place, shows how little of the
glitter has landed beyond the view of
the camera's lens. Though seldom openly
acknowledged, Detroit remains a city
hurtling towards the abyss - spiraling
unemployment, rampant blight, an
unending procession of layoffs and plant
closings, a ubiquitous drugs trade, and
a near-bankrupt municipal government are
taking their toll upon a population
already battered by decades of
adversity. Detroit's population, once
over 2 million, is now well below a
million and falling. The people, the
jobs and the economic lifeblood of a
major urban metropolis continue to drain
away unchecked, leaving a wasted
landscape and human misery behind.
So what does it mean for the
steroid-pumped athletes and
silicone-injected starlets, the cameras
and businessmen and party people and
banner-waving buffoons, to saunter into
this ground zero of middle-American
economic meltdown for their annual
exercise in self indulgence? What does
it mean that millions worldwide will see
the ossified husk of Mick Jagger beamed
into their living rooms from the
comfortable thousand-dollar-a-seat
confines of Ford Field, while this
city's desperate population linger just
outside of the camera's view and
security cordon, uninvited,
unacknowledged and unwanted at the
party?
Well, according to the most blithely
optimistic prognostications, $300
million - the amount of "local economic
activity" that the NFL's gaudy
dog-and-pony show claims to generate.
Sure. $300 million, approximately zero
of which will wind up in the pockets of
the people sleeping underneath the I-75
overpass. And approximately 100 percent
of which will wind up safely in the
hands of the restaurant chains and beer
manufacturers, the team and facility
owners, the multinational hotel chains
and other parasitic barnacles clinging
to the underside of Super Bowl XL.
As for everyone else at ground zero: Let
them eat cake.